The Lives of Things

by José Saramago

  —There is no need to panic. That is the first rule, he was telling them. The situation is under control, the armed forces are on the alert but at this stage they are taking no further action which would be inappropriate since the Security Forces are already handling every aspect of this matter at every level. Members of the public are advised not to leave their homes without some form of identification.

  Several bystanders thrust their hands into their pockets, listened awhile and then furtively moved on: these were the ones who had left their personal documents at home. The civil servant entered a café, sat down and, unusually for someone so abstemious, ordered a strong drink before spreading his newspaper out on the table. A joint declaration had been made by the Ministry of the Interior (MI) and the Ministry of Trade and Industry (MTI), combining and enlarging upon the Formal Statements (FS) issued earlier. Occupying the entire width of the page, the headline reassured readers that ‘The situation has not deteriorated within the last 24 hours.’ The civil servant muttered nervously to himself: ‘And why should it have got worse?’ He leafed through the newspaper: minor chaos: news of faults, breakdowns, things disappearing. But not a word about any deaths. A photograph caught the civil servant’s attention: it showed a street in which one whole side had disappeared as if no buildings had ever stood there. Apparently taken from the top of another building, the picture showed the labyrinth of foundations, a long strip broken up into rectangular spaces, as in children’s games. ‘And what about the dead?’ he mused, recalling the conversation in the tobacconist’s. No mention was made of the dead. Could the Press be concealing the seriousness of the situation? He looked around, turned his eyes up to the ceiling. ‘And suppose this building were now to disappear?’ he suddenly asked himself. He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, a knot in his stomach. ‘I’m imagining things again. That’s always been my trouble.’ He summoned the waiter and asked for his bill and, on receiving his change, asked him as he pointed to the newspaper:

  —Now then? What do you make of this?

  Without even attempting to make the gesture appear natural, he opened his hand. The waiter, whom he had identified earlier as category R, shrugged his shoulders:

  —To be frank, I couldn’t care less. I think it’s a joke.

  The civil servant accepted the change in silence and put away his newspaper. Looking quite disdainful, he left and went in search of a telephone box. He dialled the number of the Security Forces (SF) and when someone answered he hastily informed them that in such and such a road, in such and such a café, a waiter had been acting suspiciously. In what way? He told me he couldn’t care less and thought the whole situation was a joke. And then he actually said that in his opinion it was no bad thing, and that as far as he was concerned everything could disappear. He didn’t? He did. He was not asked for any identification and he offered none: such vague information was unlikely to be rewarded with promotion to category C. But it was a promising start. He emerged from the telephone box and hovered around. Fifteen minutes later a dark-coloured car drew up in front of the café. Two armed men got out and entered the premises. They soon reappeared, bringing the handcuffed waiter with them. The civil servant sighed, turned on his heels and went off whistling.

  He felt better out in the fresh air. The natural impulse which had made him telephone and the peace of mind he felt on seeing the waiter being escorted from the café and pushed into the car by the SF caused him some surprise. ‘Serving one’s city is the duty of every citizen,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If everyone were like me, these things would probably never have happened. I pride myself on doing my duty. We must help the Government.’ The streets did not appear to have suffered much damage, but there was a general air of neglect throughout the city, as if someone had been going around throwing bits and pieces here and there, like children dropping cake-crumbs: at first, you scarcely notice the mess, then it becomes clear the cake is no longer in a fit state to be served to guests. But there were signs of havoc (or should one say absence?). All the paving on the final stretch of the avenue, an extension of two hundred metres, had vanished. There also appeared to be a burst pipe underground, judging from the enormous crater where the mud swirled and bubbled. Workmen from the Water Department (WD) dug deep gutters around the edges of the crater, exposing the water-pipes. Others consulted the map to find out where the water had to be dammed up and diverted to another ramification of the network. It was a heavily populated area. The civil servant from the DSR went up to take a closer look and began talking to a man standing beside him:

  —When did this happen?

  The customary handshake revealed that the person he was speaking to belonged to category E.

  —Last night. It was quite dreadful, as you can imagine. The street disappeared with everything in it. Even my car.

  —Your car?

  —All the cars. Everything. Traffic-signals. Pillar-boxes. Lamp-posts. See for yourself. Wiped off the face of the earth.

  —But the Government will almost certainly pay compensation. You’ll get your car back.

  —Of course. I don’t doubt it. But has it occurred to you that in this area, according to the statistics provided by the Traffic Wardens, there were between a hundred and eighty and two hundred and twenty cars? And who knows, the same thing may have happened in other streets. Do you think the problem can easily be resolved?

  —No, it certainly won’t be easy. To pay out compensation for two hundred cars just like that is an expensive business. As someone who works in the DSR, I know what I’m talking about.

  The car owner wanted to know his name and they exchanged cards. The water had been cut off at last and the crater barely rippled as the gurgling mud subsided. The civil servant took his leave. This time he really was worried. Any more such incidents and the city would be in a state of chaos.

  It was time for lunch. He now found himself in a part of the city he did not know well and rarely frequented, but it should not be difficult to find a modest restaurant within his means. He had thought of returning home to eat, but the situation justified a change of habit. Besides he did not relish the idea of being confined within four walls, inside a building with no front door and where steps were missing. At the very least. Others must have thought the same. The streets were crowded and at times it was impossible to pass. The civil servant settled for a sandwich and a soft drink which he consumed and drank in haste. The restaurants he had come across were practically empty, and he was afraid to enter. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he thought to himself, unaware that he was qualifying his fear. ‘Unless the Government acts with some urgency, this will end in disaster.’ Just at that moment a car with a loudspeaker came to a halt in the middle of the street. The amplified voice of a woman reading from a text could be heard blaring from the car: ‘May I have your attention. The Government wishes to inform members of the public that it is about to enforce strict laws and sanctions. Some arrests have already been made and the situation is expected to return to complete normality before the day is out. Within the last few hours several cases of things breaking down have been reported, but nothing has disappeared. Members of the public must be on their guard and your full cooperation is essential. Protecting our city is not only the responsibility of the Government and the Armed Forces. Everyone has a duty to protect our city. The Government wishes to express its gratitude to all those citizens who have cooperated so far, but would remind you that the advantages of having so many people guard our streets and squares are outweighed by the disadvantages of this mass presence. The enemy has to be isolated and denied any opportunity of hiding in the crowd. So be on your guard. Our established custom of showing the palms of our hands must now be regarded as a legal obligation. From now on every citizen is authorised to demand, we repeat, to demand of his fellow-citizens that they show the palms of their hands whatever the respective categories. Anyone in category Z can and must demand that a person in c
ategory A show his hand. The Government will set an example: this evening on Television, each member of the Government will show the palm of his or her right hand to the nation. Let everyone else do the same. The catch-phrase in our present situation is the following: “On your guard and palms up!”’ The four occupants of the car were the first to obey this order. They pressed the palms of their right hands against the windows and drove on, as the woman began repeating her text. Fired with zeal, the civil servant challenged the man who was walking away:

  —Show me your hand.

  Then turning to a woman:

  —Show me your hand.

  They showed him their hands and demanded that he should do the same. Within seconds, hundreds of men and women who were just standing there or passing through the street were frantically showing their hands to each other, raising them into the air so that everyone around could bear witness. And soon there were hands everywhere waving frantically in the air, proving their innocence. The practice spread, for there was no more immediate or quicker way of acknowledging and revealing one’s identity: people no longer needed to stop, they simply passed each other with outstretched arms, turning their hands out at the wrist, and showing their palm with the letter confirming their category. It was tiresome, but saved time.

  Not that there was any shortage of time. The city was still functioning, but very slowly. No one any longer had the courage to use the metro: underpasses inspired terror. Moreover, there was a rumour going round that on one of the lines the power cables were exposed and the first train to go out that morning had electrocuted all the passengers. Perhaps it was not true, or all too true, but there was no lack of detail. On the roads, fewer and fewer buses were running. People dragged themselves through the streets, raised one arm, went on their way, becoming more and more weary, not knowing where to go or rest. In this depressing state of mind, people only had eyes for signs of absence, or for the disruption caused by that same absence. Now and then, truck-loads of soldiers appeared on the scene, as well as a column of tanks, their caterpillar treads squeaking and tearing up great chunks of the road-surface. Overhead, helicopters flew back and forth. People asked each other anxiously: ‘Can the situation be so serious? Is there a revolution? Is there likely to be war? But the enemy, where is the enemy?’ And unless they had already done so, they raised their arms and showed the palms of their hands. This also became a favourite game for children: they pounced on the adults like wild beasts, pulled faces, shouting: ‘Show me your hand!’ And if the exasperated adults, after giving in, demanded to inspect their hands, the children would refuse, stick out their tongue, or show their hands from a distance. Never mind, they were harmless: and the letter on their palms was exactly the same as that of their parents.

  The civil servant from the DSR decided to return to his apartment. His bones were aching. Feeling peckish, he began to imagine the little feast he would prepare once he arrived home. The very thought made him even hungrier, he could scarcely wait, the saliva welling up in his mouth. Without thinking, he quickened his pace, and the next minute he was running.

  Suddenly he felt himself being grabbed and pushed with force against a wall. Four men were asking him in loud voices why he was running, and shaking him, forced his hand open. Then they had to release him. And he took his revenge by demanding that they should show him the palms of their hands. All of them were in a lower category.

  In the apartment block where he lived there appeared to have been no further mishaps. The front door was gone, some steps were missing, but the lift was still working. As he was about to step out on to the landing and confronted the sliding door of the lift, a sudden thought filled him with terror: suppose the lift had broken down or collapsed while making its ascent and he had suddenly crashed to the bottom like those victims he had heard the man in the tobacconist’s describe? There and then he decided that until the situation was clarified he would not use the lift, but then he remembered there were steps missing and in all probability it was no longer possible to go down or upstairs. He wavered in the midst of this dilemma, with a concentration that seemed obsessive as he cautiously crossed the landing on tiptoe in the direction of his own front door and realised that the building was plunged into silence except for the odd little creak which was barely audible. Could everyone be out? Were they all down on the street keeping a watchful eye as the Government (G) had requested? Or had they fled? He slowly put one foot on the ground and listened attentively: the sound of coughing on an upper floor put his mind at rest. Opening the door with the utmost care, he went into his apartment. He peered into all the rooms: everything in order. He poked his head inside a kitchen cupboard in the hope that he might miraculously find the jug back in its place. It was not there. He felt quite distressed: this tiny personal loss made the disaster that had befallen the city all the more serious, this collective calamity which he had just witnessed with his own eyes. It occurred to him that just a few minutes ago he had felt the most awful pangs of hunger. Had he suddenly lost his appetite? No, but it had been transformed into a dull pain that caused him to belch as if the walls of his empty stomach were alternately contracting and distending. He made himself a sandwich, which he ate standing in the middle of the kitchen, his eyes slightly glazed, his legs shaking. The floor was unsteady under his feet. He dragged himself into the bedroom, stretched out fully-clothed on the bed without being aware of the fact and fell into a deep sleep. The rest of the sandwich rolled on to the floor, opening as it fell, his teeth-marks imprinted on one side. Three deafening cracks echoed throughout the room and, as if this were a sign, the room began to twist and sway while retaining all its forms and without any change of features or the relationship between them. The whole building shook from top to bottom. People were shouting on the other floors.

  The civil servant slept for four hours without as much as turning. He dreamt that he was standing naked inside an extremely narrow lift which was going up, went through the roof and shot into the air like a rocket, and suddenly vanished leaving him hovering in space for what could have been a tenth of a second, a whole hour, or eternity, and then he began falling down and down, with arms and legs outstretched, observing the city from on high, or its location, for there were no houses or streets in sight, nothing except an empty and totally deserted space. He landed on the ground with a bump and knocked against something with his right hand.

  The pain woke him up. The room was already full of shadows as dense as black mist. He sat up in bed. Without looking, he rubbed his right hand with the left, and jumped when he felt something sticky and warm. Even without looking, he could tell it was blood. But how could the tiny wound inflicted by the door at the DSR cause so much bleeding? He switched on the light and examined his hand: the flesh on the back was raw and all the skin covered by the restorative film had disappeared. Still half asleep and shaken by this unexpected setback, he rushed to the bathroom where he kept some first-aid materials in case of emergency. He opened the cupboard and grabbed a bottle. The blood was now dribbling on to the floor and inside the sleeve of his jacket, depending on his movements. This could be a serious haemorrhage. He opened the bottle, dipped in the brush which was in a separate case, and as he was preparing to brush on the biological fluid, he had the distinct feeling that he was about to do something foolish. And suppose the same thing was to happen again? He put the bottle back in its place, spattering blood over everything. There were no bandages in the apartment. Like compresses and adhesives they were hardly used nowadays since this biological restorative fluid had come on to the market. He ran to his room, opened the drawer where he kept his shirts and tore off a long strip of material. Using his teeth, he succeeded in wrapping it tightly round his hand. As he was about to close the drawer, he spotted the rest of the sandwich. He bent down to pick it up, gathered the bits together and, seated on the bed, slowly began munching, not that he was hungry any longer but simply out of a sense of duty he had no wish to question.


  Just as he was about to swallow the last mouthful, he noticed a dark patch almost hidden from view by the shadow of a piece of furniture. Intrigued, he went closer, thinking vaguely to himself that once he could afford to buy a carpet all these imperfections in the flooring would disappear. The red patch had been discovered (he would later swear) in a moment of distraction. Stretching out his foot, the civil servant turned it over with the tip of his shoe. He knew what he would find there: on the other side was the film which had been brushed on to the back of his hand, and the red stain was blood, the blood which had formed a lining for the skin attached there. Then he thought it most likely that he would never be able to afford the carpet. He closed the door and made his way to the sitting-room. Outwardly serene and tranquil, he could feel the panic stirring inside him, slowly for the moment, like a heavy armed disc with long spikes capable of tearing him to pieces. He switched on the Television (TV) and, while the set was warming up, he went to the window he had left open since morning. Evening was drawing in. There were lots of people in the street, but seemingly unaware of each other and silent. They were walking about aimlessly, without any apparent destination, extending their arms and showing the palms of their right hands. Viewed from above, in that silence, the spectacle made him want to laugh: arms going up and down, white hands branded with green letters gave a quick wave and then dropped, only to repeat the movement a few paces further on. They were like mental patients driven by some idée fixe as they paraded the grounds of the asylum.